Friday, May 13, 2011



"I see your face driving like a stolen car" --Beth Orton 



Skirt around the sin of circling around a skirt, that soft cleft—a little Latin chin, a little original sin—I sin, I swear I did, and still I win—despite your theft.

Every song worth singing is blue but nothing about the poet's “I” cools the tune; the guy that saw you pissing in your wishing well swears he won't tell; still, why do you keep on hidin' that hidden devil so long up your flue?

I sees it through each and every day; then I throw it, toss it, let it drift away and it's gone, long gone—anyway—in all its inconceivably allusive staying on or maybe coming back in the chorus of some cheesy folk singer's cheesy folk song.

My memory of it—and you—is gone, yet the words I write are still trying to kill you over and over—and again—can only reach out further into the pain in the ass that you continue to become, a stain on the world I wiped, I washed, and wrung out to dry (still gardening at night).

Because that skunk you always were, it seems to me, the pug hiding its white stripe in all that black, came skulking up to spray and you stunk up the place with all your grip-less gripe in gray and endless abandoning of your you and he and I.

From love to lacklove, juice to must, and justice to dust in 60 seconds; you keep on waving goodbye but never leave.



The frill sin throngs forward, friendlier than the thrush but still wrong somehow, too wholesome to be so much more than low as were the holes we packed into the Albert Hall. How many? More than enough rough trade for a stinker like you, Sue Snoo, another literary character not of my owning. Only, such renown still alludes to all of the meeces that the fat cats hated to pieces. The immaculate trap of knowing the right cat flap through which to pass—insert Mark Bolan song here—O, frail-witted composer of white waifs and anorexic dolls in pencil skirts. The girl of my nightmares approaches—everything that I ever sized-up suddenly at the tip of my tongue.

One singular procreation, a composite of counter-espionage desires surrounding a central intelligence agency knows me and all of my intel inside quid pro quo attachments, Clarisse.

I keep on going in the wrong direction, appeasing my torturers in this false Stockholm syndrome that I can’t seem to escape without dire consequences of the third kind. I have come to love fatherhood now that we have squeezed the lie of smotherhood out of that dusty tube and brushed our teeth with it. An immaculate smile makes my false face yours when I still hope you have no way of understanding my honesty in all of your sickly calculated actions adding up to a long gone thrill of seeing me succeed where you had insured yourself that I would fail.


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